


Whumptober 2019-Carry On

by Kirito_Potter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Animal Instincts, Asphyxiation, Blood and Gore, Book 2: Wayward Son, Broken Bones, Burns, Demon Summoning, Explosions, First Kiss, M/M, Mentioned Agatha Wellbelove, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Pre-Book 2: Wayward Son, Scars, Spoilers for Book 2: Wayward Son, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Vampire Bites, Vampires, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-22 09:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20872268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter/pseuds/Kirito_Potter
Summary: Carefully, I dip two fingers in the bowl of ashes. My tongue pokes out of the side of my mouth as I lean down to press them to the floor of the attic. As soon as they make contact, I squint, looking between my hand and the book rapidly. I have to do it without picking up my fingers. Best-case scenario, I just wipe it clean and start over. Worst-case scenario… I don't wanna think about that.





	1. Shaky Hands (+Asphyxiation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check notes at the end for trigger warnings.

**SHEPARD**

It's a little past eleven thirty when I start. I don't expect it to take long, so I'm not worried about getting caught at the wrong time. Besides, I've been running through the details in my head all day. On impulse, I check the book again. The symbol stares back at me, stark white lines on a black page.

Carefully, I dip two fingers in the bowl of ashes. My tongue pokes out of the side of my mouth as I lean down to press them to the floor of the attic. As soon as they make contact, I squint, looking between my hand and the book rapidly. I have to do it without picking up my fingers. Best-case scenario, I just wipe it clean and start over. Worst-case scenario… I don't wanna think about that.

I spread the ash in a careful circle, smooth and even. Once I've made a full circuit, I draw in the radius.

When I hit the center, things get complicated. I copy the shapes as closely as humanly possible; spidery little lines criss-crossing just so, precise enough that just drawing one line while dragging my finger in the wrong direction-- even if the line itself is placed and oriented correctly-- would ruin the whole thing.

There shouldn't be enough ash on my fingers to draw so much, but it never seems to run out, just slides off my finger like paint, forever and ever.

It's exhausting work, especially when I'm on my knees and can't even scoot closer because I'd kick it all up. I have to resort to leaning over it, stretching my arm out at the farthest points on the circle. I'll be sore in the morning.

Finally, I drag my finger back to the center and turn the radius into a diameter.

I take a deep breath, and I can feel my fingers shake from how much pressure I'm pressing down with. I hope it didn't make my lines veer off course.

I take one last look at the symbol. Down at the floor. Looks right. I think.

I lift my hand.

For a moment, nothing happens, and I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved. Maybe I've missed the time frame?

All at once, the floor erupts with red light, pouring out through the cracks as if someone is shining it up from the living room. It's a light, but at the same time, it feels like it's sucking the brightness from the room. My skin explodes with goosebumps, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth.

I glance to the book, heart pounding. This isn't right. Blue, it was meant to be blue. And the voice was supposed to call out first. Symbol, voice, light. This is all wrong.

**Who. Are. You.**

I yelp and try to cover my ears to shield myself from the grating, gravelly voice, but it's in my brain, and it's everywhere, and it's nowhere.

**Who are you.**

I shake my head, trying to remember how to breathe. No-- now I'm breathing too hard. So this is what hyperventilating feels like. Chest tight, throat closing up, my body screaming for oxygen even as I keep pulling it in. Pockets of air, in and right back out with no effect. Funny how breathing too much feels so much like not breathing at all.

**Who are you. Who are you. Whoareyou. Whoareyou. Whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwho**

" _ Shepard! _ " I scream.

The voice falls away, but I don't stop.

"Shepard, my name is Shepard, I'm Shepard! I--"

Smoke clings to my mouth, silencing my cries. I choke and cough on it. I didn't see it form, but it's filling the room in swirling patches now. It looks more like fog than smoke, but it's black-- and I can taste the memory of the flames.

**Shepard.**

I nod frantically, trying to speak through the smog, but all I can do is hiccup and gasp.

**Why.**

Why? Why what? I can't ask it. I can't do anything but shudder.

**Why have you brought me here.**

I drop the book to the floor and claw at the smoke, trying to wrench my mouth free so I can answer, but it comes apart in my hands, dissolving between my fingers even as it clings to my face. Both intangible and binding.

**Why.**

Please.

**Why.**

Why?

**Why.**

Please, God, why is this happening? What did I do wrong?

**Why.**

I sob. It's dry at first, and it makes me suck in smoke. I hack and groan, trying to force it back out of my lungs. It sticks.

As tears start to stream down my cheeks, the smoke parts from the center of the room. It doesn't clear, just sections itself off, all the thicker where it's trapped. In the space where the floor is visible again, a figure takes shape from the darkness. The red light shines on its chin, the bottom of its nose, the hollows of its eyelids. It looks even less human than it probably would otherwise. I can't bring myself to keep looking at it. I drop my head, letting my chin rest on my chest.

**What do you desire.**

I sit, defeated.

**What do you want.**

My throat catches, and I try to swallow past it.

**Ask me for anything.**

Freedom.

**Speak.**

I can't.

I can just see its feet stepping towards me. They don't look right. Nothing about it looks right.

Its hand is on my face, and I panic.

It tears the smoke away.

I'm left panting, eyes wide, scrabbling at my mouth.

**Useless. Can't even speak without your lips.**

I look up, horrified.

**What do you want.**

Its mouth doesn't move.

I lick my lips. "I… I want you to leave. I want you to go away and I want to never see you again."

Its expression darkens.

**You could ask for anything.**

"I just want to be alone," I sob. "Please. Just go."

Its lips curl into a snarl.

**Pitiful excuse for a creature. Helpless, witless, and brainless.**

"Leave me alone!" I scream. It hurts. I'm screaming my throat raw.

It looks down at me with disdain. Its huge hand slams into my chest, and I nearly topple back. I catch myself, shivering, and look up at it, feeling bare.

"Stop it!" I screech. "Please! Just leave!"

Its handprint boils against my chest.

Thick stripes of heat-- heat isn't the right word, too mild, too kind-- shoot out from where its palm is pressed to my skin. They encircle my forearms like vices, cutting into my flesh and burning all at once.

It takes me much too long to realize the screaming I hear is me. It sounds distant.

The searing heat traces shapes onto my skin that burn then tingle then go fuzzy. I'm just glad to be rid of the pain each time my nerves fizzle out, even if the relief is only for a fraction of my skin at a time. For every second I kneel, screaming and shaking and crying, more of my skin gives up. It's better than the pain.

I don't know how long I cry, only that my tears run out and it's still not over, that there's salt water dripping into my open mouth and rolling off my chin and then there's not, even though I can't stop sobbing.

I know that after I can't cry properly anymore I start heaving. I haven't eaten since breakfast, but the twist of my stomach each time is disgusting all the same. It's like being turned inside out. (Would it hurt less that way?)

I know that when my gag reflex gives out, all I have left to do is scream. And I scream. And scream. Until even that is taken from me by rasp and grit and my squeaking, pathetic whines.

So I drop my head. My body quivers all over.

When it finally removes its hand, I almost don't notice. The burns feel like nothing, like a literal void. Like there are just holes cut straight through, turning my arms into springs, and there's nothing left there at all. But when I turn to look I'm wrong. My skin is charred. It looks like any ink I could get in a shop, but I'd take the needle a hundred times over.

**Puny.**

It's the first it's spoken since it started.

And it's the last it speaks before it melts into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: asphyxiation, torture, implication of possible vomit (but no actual vomiting occurs), burns, scars


	2. Explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the notes at the end for trigger warnings.

**BAZ**

I never understood how he did it. How, even when he lost all control, he _ didn't._ How Snow could go off and protect everyone around him from the blast, almost without thinking about it. Like a fucking hero.

He had to fall short at some point.

Every time I blink, I see it replaying itself on the backs of my eyelids. Just that fraction of a second is enough for everything to roll out in front of me, again and again. My blinks take longer every time, dragging out the images, until the memory lasts longer than reality, until it takes all my effort not to fall into the shadows and stop opening my eyes altogether.

It plays again.

"Everyone!"

I turn to look, raising an eyebrow. Snow is standing in the doorway to the classroom, hair disheveled. I can smell the goblin blood on his shirt, rancid and thick. His clothes are torn, and where his skin shows through it's scratched up. Thankfully, I don't think he's bleeding, but he does have a nasty bruise on his forehead.

I pretend not to care.

"Please! You need to get out of the castle! Now!" He shouts, voice raw and raspy.

The other students are scrambling to their feet. Panicking. It makes sense, when Snow says it that way, to panic. He's going to get these idiots killed because they're scared, not because the goblins will get to them.

I throw my wand up, standing from my desk. "**Your attention, please!**"

Simon looks horrified. "Baz, this is--"

"Walk to the exits," I announce. "Don't run. You'll only hurt yourselves more."

The students nod slowly and start to file up by the door.

"Baz!" Snow growls. "I'm trying to help! We don't have time for order, don't you understand?"

I sigh, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Sure, if you want them to kill themselves trying to run out of here. It's common sense to keep them from panicking. That's how people get crushed and trampled."

"But--"

The roof shatters, much like glass, crumbling and crashing to the ground in huge chunks.

I don't want to know if any of it landed on someone, so I look up.

"A giant?" I snarl. "You were fighting goblins!"

He looks at me strangely. "How did you--"

The giant roars, the force of it blowing my hair back. I clap my hands over my ears, squinting against what feels like a gale. It smells even more rotten than the goblin blood. (Maybe there's some mixed in.)

When it stops, my ears are ringing. Snow shouts something-- I can tell by the way his nose scrunches up and his mouth tears a hole in his face-- but I can't hear him, even only a few feet away. I note faintly that I've gone temporarily deaf. (Or at least, I hope it's temporary.)

He swings his sword wildly, angled up at the giant, but with the castle's high ceilings and the fact that it's a _ fucking giant _ he has no chance of reaching it from where he stands.

I lift my wand, still disoriented by the ringing, and do my best to call out "**Bugger off!**"

I have no way of knowing if my articulation is rubbish or not, but at the very least I can feel the strain in my vocal cords, letting me know I'm saying _ something. _

The giant flinches slightly, but it doesn't have the knockback I was expecting. (Or maybe it did. Making a giant flinch seems like quite a task.) If anything, it only seems to anger it, based on the new gust of foul-smelling wind. At least this time I don't have to cover my ears.

Snow is looking around frantically, sword wavering. It seems like he always gets into the worst situations; before he could use the thing, a cursed suit of armor came after him, broadsword and all. Ever since he learned how to summon it, all his enemies have either been intangible, impervious, or just plain out of reach. Murphy's Law.

He lets go of the sword, and it dissolves in the air. I'm confused until he starts dragging a desk towards the wall with his now-free hands. He pushes it up against a large wardrobe full of textbooks before hopping atop it. I always chide him for standing on desks, but now hardly seems like the time. He grabs at the top of the wardrobe and pulls himself up, legs kicking, until he's crouched on top of it, panting. He takes a running start across its wide top and leaps.

For a moment, I don't think he's going to make it.

He grabs the edge of the roof, and I can see the strain in his muscles as he holds on for dear life.

"Simon!" I scream, or I think I do.

He struggles, still kicking like it'll reverse gravity. I find myself frozen, unable to do anything but watch in horror.

The giant laughs, it looks like. It reaches down and grabs Simon, pinching the back of his blazer like he's a kitten. He dangles, threatening to slip out of the fabric.

His sword appears in his hand again.

There. Now he'll win, right? The giant was stupid enough to leave his hands free, and now he's going to kill it like he kills everything. It's the one thing he's not shite at, and what he's not shite at he excels in. (He only does things in extremes.)

Snow swings brazenly, slashing the giant across the bottom of its palm. Blood streams down from the cut, coating its fingers and painting Snow's blazer.

It opens its mouth, but I don't know if it's from pain or amusement.

It tosses him like he weighs nothing at all.

I scream, silent in my own ears, throwing a hand out as if to catch him, but he lands on his back, just by the edge of the hole in the roof, his head dipping backwards to hang partially into the exposed classroom. The profile of his face is warped with pain.

I don't know what to do. People are still clawing at the doors, at the rubble, at my sleeves. I'm suffocating.

Simon starts to sit up, eyebrows twitching. He juts his chin out defiantly. His sword lifts into the air.

The giant snatches his blade out of his hands and snaps it like a toothpick.

I gape. I didn't think the Sword of Mages _ could _break. Surely it'll magickally put itself back together, the way Snow can forget it on his bed and summon it a million miles away.

Or maybe it'll just stay broken. I have no way of knowing.

His eyes are dull. He looks really, truly scared. But slowly, he pulls himself up to take a knee. And then he stands, wobbling, on the edge of what's left of the roof. I can see a bit of the heel of his uniform shoe sticking out over the hole. He's facing away from me now, so I can't see his expression, and I still can't hear anything but the high-pitched ringing. I don't know what he's going to do.

The world goes bright, and I'm flying. Flying backwards through the air at what feels like a thousand kilometers an hour. I can't see, and I can't hear, and all I feel is unbearable heat and the air rushing past, and I'm _ terrified. _

My body slams into something solid, and I feel the crack even if I can't hear it. I slump against the surface, sliding to the ground. I feel like there are knives sticking into my abdomen. I think they're my ribs.

I open my eyes. I'm back to the present.

The giant is gone. After a blast like that, it should be obvious. Hell, half the castle is gone. (Half my face, probably.)

The air stinks of blood. My fangs won't even pop.

Ringing, ringing, ringing. (I wonder in the back of my mind if he's calling for me. I can imagine his voice. _ Baz! Baz, where are you? Baz, are you alive? _If I could hear him, I could call out to him. He could save me. But I can't. I don't know if he's calling at all.)

My eyelids dip, and it plays again, vivid and loud and then vivid and quiet and then bright. Then I open my eyes and it's over.

It's hard to breathe. Every movement makes the knives jostle, and I keep coughing up blood. For some reason, I catch myself thinking my father will scold me for staining my jumper.

Loud then quiet then bright then over.

My throat is tight.

Loud, quiet, bright, over.

If I'm going to die, let me die. I would never do it myself, but if it's going to happen on its own… thank Merlin. But don't drag it out. I don't want to hold on anymore. Not if no one is going to save me. Not if I'm going to sit here in agony for hours.

Loud. Quiet. Bright. Over.

I scream. I scream, not hearing it, until I can't anymore, until I'm sent into a coughing fit that makes my ribs cry out too.

Loud, then quiet, then--

Someone shakes my shoulders, and my eyes fly open.

Simon is saying something, eyes wide and worried. He's crying. For me? For everyone? For the giant? For himself?

I can't even raise my hand without wincing, but I lay it over his. He's gripping my shoulders so tightly, I think he might break those too.

He's still talking at me, movements growing in intensity. I wish this fucking ringing would stop. I wish he'd stop wasting his words on someone who can't hear them. I wish he would just finish me off and put me out of my misery.

He shakes his head with vigor, like he's responding to me. His tears go flying with his momentum, and one splatters on my cheek. He looks at me again, and his eyes are bloodshot, his nose running.

I kiss him.

It's how I planned to go: in Simon Snow's arms, giving him my first-- and last-- kiss. I'm even dying at his hands, though not in the way I thought. I don't think either of us ever imagined…

I'm thinking too much. Here I am, kissing Simon Snow, and I can't even allow myself to be happy about it.

He's so warm. And he's soft, but also hard, in a way that's hard to explain, but I don't want to. I just want to feel.

One of his hands lifts from my shoulder, and I get ready for him to push me back. Instead, he holds the back of my neck, supporting my head and pulling me closer. I sigh.

When he pulls back, his eyes are even wider than before. He looks scared, and confused, and just as worried as before.

And-- oh. There's no disgust. No hate. Nothing I expected to see marring his features.

He _ cares. _It's all I can see, practically written across his face in my blood. (It's streaked along his mouth and chin.) He cares about me. Truly.

I don't know what to say. And I don't know if I can say it.

Loud, quiet, bright.

Over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: loss of hearing/partial sensory deprivation, explosions, blood, injury, broken bones, suicidal thoughts/ideation, implied death


	3. Delirium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the notes at the bottom for trigger warnings.

**BAZ**

"Excuse me?"

I grit my teeth, glancing back at Bunce. She looks ready to rip my throat out. (Ironic.)

"I won't be long," I insist. "It's hardly my fault that I wasn't able to plan for this. We were supposed to leave tomorrow, and you're here buying tickets for the very next plane--"

"It's an emergency!" She hisses.

"I know that," I snap back. "And it'll be even more of an emergency if I drain someone on the flight."

Her eyes narrow. "We don't have time to--"

"We do, actually," I snarl. "Getting all worked up isn't going to get us through the queue to security any faster, and even if it did, the plane wouldn't take off sooner either." I gesture angrily to the people ahead of us. "We have half an hour at the very least before we even get to the metal detectors, so may I please go find something to drink before I actually murder you?"

She tsks at me, like I'm a small child asking to go back for something an hour into a drive. "You can't be serious."

I lower my voice. "My fangs keep dropping. It's been nearly two days, and this place is packed." It's true. My stomach hurts. My throat is too tight.

"Be snappy about it."

"I always am."

I glance between the four of them before deciding to hand my luggage off to Shepard. He's hardly got any of his own, so he can handle dragging my suitcase along for fifteen minutes or so. (I had to buy a new one on the fly, considering I threw mine away in a fit of rage.) (At least this one is quite lovely. The outside is patterned with a version of  _ Starry Night _ and the insides are a deep blue.)

"I'll be right back," I say, then turn on my heel and step out of the queue.

The key to walking out of an airport with the intent to kill something-- the key to getting away with anything, really-- is looking confident. If you look like you're supposed to be there, no one will question you. Even TSA.

I keep my chin up and walk with purpose, looking as bored as possible. (I've gotten good at not letting my hunger show on my face, even as excruciating as it is now.) I step right out the front of the building, no questions asked, and make a sharp left. I saw it on the drive: a swath of trees, just next to the airfield. A flock of birds flew out, cawing loudly, when our Uber passed by. That's promising enough.

All it takes is to start on the worn path between the trees. Must be a common place to walk. I even pass a jogger who offers me a friendly wave. I wave back, resisting the urge to grab her by the arm and slam her into a tree and snap her neck and--

I walk on the path for a minute, until I'm deep enough into the vegetation that I don't think I'll be seen, then stop and listen. There are dozens of animals, but I can hear something a little bigger to the right. My stomach rumbles. I step off the path.

My footsteps are nearly silent, eyes constantly searching the ground for signs of something,  _ anything _ to drink. Specifically, I can hear the big animal somewhere nearby. It's not huge, but larger than all the little sparrows and jays flapping about. It's tantalising. I keep looking, but I can't seem to find it.

It's humiliating to admit, but when this happens-- when I'm tailing something, or when an animal hasn't noticed me yet-- it sends a thrill through me. Sometimes it's enough to make my fangs drop. I guess I really am a predator, getting excited over this twisted game of cat and mouse. Like this chase is satisfying some innate instinct.

Rarely, when I have it in my hands, I let go of it and run after it all over again. It's sick, and I always deny it afterwards, even to myself. But in the moment…

My fangs tingle from the thought of it.

Something rustles in the brush, and I still. It moves again. My mouth is watering.

An opossum waddles out, and if I didn't know any better I'd think it was smiling from the way it bares its little rows of teeth.

I watch it carefully as it wanders closer, unaware of its imminent doom. It must think I'm going to feed it. I almost feel bad. Almost.

(I can throw it into the road when I'm done. No one will even know it didn't die that way.)

I kneel, swallowing down the extra saliva. (Fuck, am I drooling? It's an opossum, for Morgana's sake. I really am hungry, aren't I?) I reach to grab it.

My mobile rings loudly in my pocket, making the opossum jump and scamper off into the brush.

Snarling, I pull the mobile out. Bunce's picture stares back. I answer.

"Are you quite done? They're going to check our papers soon."

Horrified, I check the time. It's hardly been ten minutes.

"How did--" I start, voice still muffled by my fangs, but she cuts me off.

"I told you that you didn't have time. Can you please just get back here?"

I'm spiraling. "I-- just-- I need to--"

"Two minutes. Tops. Then they need to look at our passports."

What am I supposed to say? That's hardly enough time to get back there, much less to stalk, kill, and drain something.

I settle for "Okay."

She hangs up.

When I find them in the queue, I slip under the rope and stand behind them, feeling out of breath from my run back.

Simon smiles at me, but his eyes are tired. He scoots back a bit to stand at my side, and his hand dangles dangerously close to mine. I think he wants to hold it.

"Hey," he murmurs sweetly, leaning in for a kiss.

"Please don't touch me," I gasp out, hands flying up to shield myself.

His face falls, and he takes a small step back. "Did I… do something wrong?"

"No," I assure him, hands dropping. "I did. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Then, "I don't understand."

I shake my head. "It's fine, really." I turn to Shepard. "You have my things?"

He hands them over, raising an eyebrow. "Dude, you look even worse than before."

"That's probably because I exerted my energy for nothing in return," I sigh.

Bunce turns on me. "Please tell me that wasn't for nothing."

"I… I can make it until we land." It's a boldfaced lie. I don't think I've gone this long without drinking since-- well, a few days after I changed, when I was even more in denial about myself. And I definitely didn't last then, unless you call draining your dog self control. Still, I have more experience now, so maybe things will be different. I just have to keep telling myself that.

Simon's gone pale. "Baz…"

"It's fine," I insist. My stomach growls again.

Going through airport security was terrifying enough the first time, considering we had an Indian girl and a bloke with wings that may or may not show on a body scan if we screw up a spell. Now we've got an added black guy and a vampire on the verge of a nervous breakdown. (Agatha is fine, of course. They probably don't even realise she's in our party at first.)

As scary as it is to get patted down-- scary for the officer's sake, not mine-- we all make it through just fine, and soon we're rolling our carry-on bags down to the gate. Just like I told them, running doesn't get us on the plane any faster; it gets us hard seats in a boring terminal waiting area with nothing to do but charge my mobile and panic.

We sit for nearly an hour before Simon groans and stands from his seat. "I'm buying a sandwich. Anyone hungry?"

I shoot death beams at him from my eyes.

"Uh… right. I won't be too long." He walks off towards one of the many stores in the airport with a new wallet filled with counterfeit money.

I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes and try not to scream.

I still haven't looked up when he returns, but I can hear his shoes shuffling along the linoleum.

"It's got honey mustard," he says in an awed voice. "Which sounds disgusting but is actually quite good."

A snarl tears itself from my throat before I can stop it.

Simon plops down in the seat across from me. I look up.

"Maybe it would help?" He asks, looking genuinely concerned. I don't understand until I see he's holding the sandwich out to me.

I hesitate, starting to reach for it. His fingers brush against mine, and I jerk back like I've been burned.

"Thank you," I yelp, squeezing my eyes shut, "but no thank you."

It's quiet for another fifteen minutes or so.

"Flight two-six-two now boarding," a woman's voice says pleasantly over the intercom. "Flight two hundred and sixty two now boarding."

I push myself to my feet, wobbling slightly, and follow the others to the door. One swipe of a ticket, and we're walking down a little tunnel. Then we're on.

I'm devastated to see a woman sitting in my row. Simon squeezes past her, eager to watch out the window (it's only the second time he's ever flown in his life, emergency or not), which leaves me to slip into the middle seat. The woman smells like steak, and I can't tell it's because she's eaten it recently or because her blood is singing in my nose.

We sit for another fifteen minutes. Simon is entertained enough watching all the tiny people running around on the airfield, but I can't hold my focus on the window, not as more and more people cram themselves into the seats around us. At some point, my fangs pop, and I have to put all my energy into pushing them back. (The way Lamb showed me.)

Finally, the plane starts to roll across the ground, settling into place at the beginning of the runway. Simon squeals excitedly, pressing his cheek against the glass. I put my head in my hands.

Taking off is always the part that scares me the most; it feels like you could fall at any moment. This time, I hardly notice.

Eventually, Simon sits back and starts fiddling with the screen. "Want to watch something with me?" He asks.

I shrug. It's something to do.

He offers me one of his beat-up earbuds, and I have to lean closer to him so the cord isn't pulled taut. Heat radiates off his skin.

He puts on a romcom. I can't think. It's just white noise in my ears, shapes and colors on the screen, for far too long. Nothing means anything. Simon is laughing. My stomach twists.

Simon is picking a new movie when a voice bubbles up beside me, outside of the earbuds. I can't make out the noises into words. Slowly, I turn to look.

"Hello, sir!" The stewardess chirps again. Her cheeks are rosy. "Can I get you something to drink?"

_ Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. _

"Um…" I try to swallow, but my throat is dry. "What do you have?"

She starts rattling off drinks, but it's all melting together. Nonsense words. I'm watching the shapes her mouth makes without taking any of it in.

I eye the cranberry juice with disdain.

"Do you have any beer?" I grunt. It'll dull my senses. (Or maybe it'll dull my morality.) (Hopefully the former.)

She grins, leaning closer. Her scent wafts closer. "I'll need an ID for that, sir."

I fumble for it in my back pocket.

Her pout is nothing short of condescending. "I'm sorry, sir, but you need to be twenty one to purchase alcohol on board."

I snarl. Actually snarl. My lips curl back, and I bare my fangs, leaning towards her.

She squeaks, knuckles going white on the handle of the cart.

"Baz?" Simon asks absently, still caught up in the colors on the screen. Meaningless, nothing, useless.

"Um-- sir--" the flight attendant gasps. The color is draining from her face. There's a vein bulging in her neck.

I grip the armrest and throw myself over the woman in the aisle seat. My seatbelt snaps, and I hear metal clatter to the ground.

"Oh my god!" The stewardess gasps. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my--"

My wand is at her throat, and I don't know when it got there. " **Cut out all that racket.** " Her lips clamp shut.  _ An illegal spell,  _ my mind whispers, but I don't care. Who the hell cares, why should I care, I don't care about anything except  _ how good she smells. _

" **Stay back!** " Bunce's voice rings out.

I fight the spell's effect, only flinching slightly. This is my prey, and I'm not backing down. I bare my teeth again.

The woman in our row is screaming. It makes my body tingle with adrenaline. Merlin, what a rush.

" **There's nothing to see here!** " Bunce shouts. The screaming stops.

I growl, trying to block out her distractions. Can't she see I'm busy?

"Baz!" Someone says behind me. Something in me says he's important.

My prey is shaking her head, eyes wet, trying and failing to speak. I roughly push her head aside and press my face into the junction of her neck and shoulder. A tear slides down her collarbone. She smells like-- like--

Something falls from my hand, lightweight and thin. It clatters on the ground. I pull her flush against my chest with my now-free hand.

"Baz! Stop it!"

I sink my fangs in.

If my mouth weren't occupied, I'd swear. Instead, I moan, pressing my face closer so I can dig my fangs in further. It's boiling hot in my mouth, and so sweet.

The world dissolves around me. My whole body feels like it's on fire. Why have I never done this before? It feels so fucking right.

She goes limp, head drooping against my shoulder. The venom must have sedated her. Finally. I didn't want to deal with her squirming anymore.

The taste is so much better than rats; more saturated.  _ Fuck Watford.  _ Better yet, I can feel it warming my body already. Just a few gulps, and my fingers have stopped shaking with hunger. I'm not full yet, but I've never been so sated so quickly. I doubt I've had more than a pint, but I'm soaring.

I remember something. From years ago, when Fiona offered me whiskey for the first time. It's like that-- my body is buzzing with the high, and I'm warm all over, and I feel like laughing.

Someone's fingers dig into my hair, and the hand tries to yank my head back. My fangs catch and tear the skin in ragged lines before the hand pulls me free from the new grooves.

I turn to look, hissing and baring my bloodied fangs.

Simon looks like he's going to be sick. Cold dread floods through me, and I freeze up. I let go of the woman and run.

The loo is miraculously vacant, and I throw the door open, darting inside. I lock the door, jiggling the handle to make sure.

Swallowing hard, I take a step back from the door, hands shaking at my sides. When I turn, the reflection in the small mirror makes my stomach clench. My hair is disheveled, eyes wide and sunken. My fangs are gone, but the canines they've become are still stained red. I stare for a long time. The monster in the mirror stares back.

I feel disgusting, grimy all over. I don't think I'll ever leave the shower once I get home. (If I get home.) (I silently pray that Bunce's mother has already sent someone to meet me at the airport and execute me.)

My knees give out, and I'm on the floor all at once. My cheeks are wet, but I feel so numb-- on the outside, on the inside-- that I don't understand why for a while. My whole body shakes with the force of my sobs. Each time I suck in a breath, it feels like my whole chest is caving in. It's excruciating, but I know I deserve it.

When I can breathe, when my body doesn't feel like static, I crawl across the ground, positioning myself over the toilet. I stare down. As disgusting as I feel, I don't think I'm going to be sick. But I want to be. I want to feel as wretched as I am. I want to hurt. And I want to rid myself of what I took.

I start to press two fingers into my mouth.

There's a sharp knock on the door, and I flinch.

"Baz!" Simon shouts. "Baz, please, open up!"

I try to ignore him.

"Baz," he says softly, and he sounds so broken.

I'm at the door in a matter of seconds. When I pull it open, Simon throws himself into my arms, red around the eyes. I hold him, like I have any right to comfort him.

When he locks the door behind himself and looks up at me, I press my lips together and try to lick my teeth clean so he won't have to see them. He waits patiently.

I take a shaky breath. "Is she…"

"Penny has her in the back of the plane," he says quickly.

"But did I--"

"I think she's okay," he whispers.

My knees feel weak again. I press my face into his hair.

"Penny managed to cast 'there's nothing to see here' before you-- well-- no one even saw, so she only really needs to wipe the stewardess' memory. And the woman who was sat next to us, probably."

I nod slowly, but I can't bring myself to lift my head. I don't think I can look him in the eyes.

"It's okay," he murmurs.

"It's not."

He tenses in my arms. "It will be."

He sits on the floor of the bathroom with me for the rest of the flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: blood, injury, suicidal thoughts/ideation, mentions of vomit and of a character intending to make themself throw up (though no actual vomiting occurs)


End file.
